


Some Assembly Required

by lazarus



Category: DCU (Comics)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-14
Updated: 2012-10-14
Packaged: 2017-11-16 07:46:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/537150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lazarus/pseuds/lazarus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And this is why they no longer do their furniture shopping at IKEA.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Some Assembly Required

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired from this silly [post](http://soldieress.tumblr.com/post/33518508296/imagineyourotp-imagine-your-otp-getting-really). I was telling Vivian that Tim would totally try to set IKEA on fire because he couldn’t assemble a bloody chair and that the only reason why he hasn’t done so already was because Connor is level-headed and rational and ever so patient about these things. Needless to say, this was born. This is my first **Connor Hawke/Tim Drake** fic and I plan to write more. Lots more.
> 
> Disgusting amounts of domestic fluff and slightly cracky. Enjoy.

Connor peered over from the kitchen counter as Tim turned the instruction manual upside-down for the thirteenth time, a look of confused consternation on his face. 

Tim’s brows were furrowed together and his tongue stuck out, like it always did, when he was hard at work on something that was mildly challenging, albeit a little annoying.

Connor knew the signs of when Tim was slowly becoming less patient and more irritated. He started to make that Face, the same face he made when he was trying to cook dinner and it wasn’t going the way he planned, or when some villain decided to run rampant on the very same day he and Tim were scheduled to a lunch date. Connor knew when to leave well enough alone and when it was time to intervene, and it was high time he made sure Tim did not throw their newly bought furniture out the window in frustration. 

He quickly poured a glass of water and crossed the foyer into the small dining area, where Tim was huddled on the floor, a screw driver in one hand and the manual in the other; all around him the floor was littered in screws, nuts and bolts that didn’t make any sense to Connor but which he trusted Tim to know where every thing was supposed to go. 

He kneeled beside Tim and placed a hand on his shoulder. “How’s it going?” he ventured slowly. 

“Not sure,” said Tim, not taking his eyes off the manual. “I don’t know what I’m doing wrong. It said this,” he gestured to one of the leg chairs that said C in thick, black print, “goes here,” and he gestured to seat which was marked D. “But it’s not fitting right.”

“Hmm,” said Connor, propping his chin on Tim’s shoulder so he could get a better look at the instructions. Without even thinking about it, Tim leaned back into him, his back sliding perfectly to fit against Connor’s chest, much to Connor’s delight (he enjoyed having Tim pressed against him). “Why not put that bolt on here instead?” He said, pointing at the other leg chair, which was marked with a bold letter B. 

Tim shook his head. “The instructions clearly state that this screw goes onto this leg, not the seat,” he said firmly.

Connor shrugged easily. “Maybe we should call someone at IKEA?”

Tim peered at him with a frown, like Connor had suggested Tim give up in this pointless endeavor and just buy plastic stools instead. “There’s no need for that,” he said stubbornly. “I can handle it. I just need… to figure this out.” Although he sounded unsure as he glanced at his surroundings again. He started to chew on his lip, a sure sign that Tim wasn’t as confident as he claimed. 

Connor did his best to stifle the fond smile that was threatening to come out. He simply huddled closer and his cheek against Tim’s shirt, knowing Tim wouldn’t appreciate (or share in) his amusement when his mood was clearly going south.  

Apparently he didn’t hide it well enough because Tim huffed. “Oh for goodness sakes, if I can disarm a bomb in less than a minute with my eyes closed and one arm tied around my back, I can assemble a goddamn chair.” 

Somehow Connor wouldn’t have put it passed a former Robin to be able to stop a bomb in his sleep. Disarming nuclear missiles and putting bad guys out of commission was just the sort of thing Tim did on instinct. Putting a chair together seemed so … out there, so  _normal_ that it was laughably out of their element. More often than naught, Connor had to remind himself that this  _was_  normal for them now. Having breakfast together, making frequent trips to the grocery store, paying rent and going on dates… it was all very  _normal_. Sometimes Connor wondered if Tim missed it—the cape, running around late at night and putting villains behind bars—and there are many times Connor was positive Tim did (Connor knew he did—you don’t just spend most of your life training for this sort of heroics and not expect some withdrawals or, in his case, moments of doubt), and yet it warmed something in Connor to see how much Tim was  _trying_. How much he clearly wanted this simple little life of normalcy and that he wanted to spend it, share it all, with  _Connor_. 

“I have no doubt that you can,” said Connor, pecking Tim on the top of his head. “Here, I got you water.”

Finally, a small smile broke through Tim’s mask of annoyance as he twisted in Connor’s arms to accept the offered cup, his fingers brushing over Connor’s as he did.

“Thanks,” he said softly, like he and Connor were sharing some sort of secret, like they weren’t already in an apartment all to themselves and could be as loud and as vocal as they liked—and often they did so, with fumbling, desperate hands, an intense eagerness for skin and touch and heat, and a wild, insatiable need for  _more_.

“You’re welcome.” 

Tim’s eyes were really blue from this proximity. 

And this time Connor couldn’t help lean in to steal a proper kiss and feeling his breath leave him completely as Tim automatically responded; his lips parted and his free hand going to the back of Connor’s neck to hold him there, to keep him where he was, as if Connor could possibly pull away from him now or ever.

Tim’s mouth was as warm and soft as the rest of him and his touch burned right through Connor’s clothes, past his skin and went straight to his core, beyond his soul. Tim fit just right in his arms, like a puzzle being put in its proper place, making Connor feel whole, complete, as if the world had just righted itself and all was as it should be. 

That was how Tim made him feel: grounded and insane, confused and confident, brave and scared out if his mind—just one jumble of emotions and sensation that continually overwhelm and make a mess of him. That continue to make him feel so totally alive, like he could live off of this paradox for the rest of his life.  

When Connor finally pulled away, he shivered, because the tingle of that moment still left his head feeling dizzy and his heart full enough to explode. When he opened his eyes, Tim was all starry-eyed and in a daze. 

“Um,” he said, rather intelligently. “What was I gonna do again?” He sounded out of breath.  

Connor’s mouth twitched. “The chair, remember?” His breathing was also coming out a bit shallow. 

Tim blinked a couple times. “Oh. Oh right.” 

Connor grinned and pecked him one more time on the lips before releasing him. “If you need help, I’m right over here,” he said.

That seemed to wake Tim from his daze. He made another Face, the usual face that told Connor that his assistance was not and would not be required, at least not in the building of this chair. Connor smiled again and left him to it, deciding that the laundry was likely in need of his help. 

 

A couple hours went by before Connor returned and to his surprise, Tim was  _still_  where he left him and the chair…  _well_ , the  _chair_ … didn’t look anything like a chair. Even if he tilted his head to the side, it looked off, like the abstract contraptions he’d seen in museums.  

“Uh, Tim?” said Connor, tentatively. “Tim?”

“I was the Third Robin,” Tim muttered. 

“Tim?” said Connor. 

“I was the third Robin,” Tim repeated, his tone hollow. “Official partner to the Dark Knight, the World’s Greatest Detective—”

“Tim, I don’t really under—”

“I was one of the founding members of the Young Just Us circle. I was a Titan. I… I’ve fought with the JLA—” Tim’s voice was growing louder with a tinge of hysteria now. 

“Tim—”

“I’ve gone toe to toe with Lady Shiva, taken on the League of Assassins, fought Alien armies and psychotic villains hellbent on world domination and—”

“Um, sweetheart, maybe you should—”

“—AND I CAN’T SEEM TO PUT A GODDAMN CHAIR TOGETHER,” Tim shouted the last part and rose to his feet, looking about ready to chuck the entire chair out of Earth’s orbit. 

“Tim,” said Connor and his voice was solid, commanding but gentle, always gentle. “Tim, give me the screwdriver.”

His hands slowly came up to take the tool from Tim’s hands, which he had balled tightly into fists like one would normally do right before throwing it at something. Or someone. And a screwdriver was not a suitable batarang, regardless of how versatile and trained Tim was at using anything as a potential weapon. It was just as well that Connor took it from him. 

“Tim,” said Connor again, once that was done (internally sighing in relief because he was sure Tim would fight him for). He cupped Tim’s face in both his hands. “Tim, look at me.”

“No.”

“Please?” 

Tim twitched. “Not fair,” he mumbled.

It took a moment, but Connor was, if anything, endlessly patient, and waiting was an art he’d not only mastered, but which he perfected. As soon as Tim reluctantly met his eyes, Connor gave him a brilliant smile. 

“Hey there.”

Tim’s mouth twitched, but his face remained impassive. “Hello.” 

Connor stroked the apples of Tim’s cheeks with his thumb, tucking a stray hair behind Tim’s ear as he did so. “So now this is what we’re going to do—”

“Connor, I don’t think—”

“Hey, hey, let me finish, okay? It’s my turn to speak.” At Tim’s sigh and go-ahead nod, Connor continued, “Here is what we are going to do. You are going to take a break. Just a short one,” he added loudly, knowing Tim was going to open his mouth and protest. “Take a quick shower, you’ll feel so much better, I promise. And I’ll sit here and try to tackle the chair. Er,” he gave Tim a sheepish grin, “so to speak. Sound good?”

Tim made a Face and this face told Connor that Tim clearly didn’t want to take a break but likely didn’t have any say in the manner because Connor was being unreasonably reasonable again. It made Connor grin again. 

“Fine,” Tim grumbled, but it was without heat. He brought his hands up to cover Connor’s and gave them a gentle squeeze. “I’ll take a bath. But only because I feel icky and gross and not because you suggested it.”

“Never said a thing,” said Connor, smiling widely and stupidly as Tim tilted his head up for a kiss. Because Connor enjoyed kissing Tim every chance he got and Tim didn’t mind at all. 

Tim rolled his eyes as he pulled away, his mouth quirking upwards before he wandered down the hall. As soon as Connor could hear the shower running, he picked up the instruction manual, read through it briefly and then looked back at the chair—well,  _the_   _sort-of-chair_ —at the scattered of nuts and bolts across the floor and then to the screwdriver he had tucked away in his pocket. He rolled up his sleeves.

“Better get to work,” he said.  

 

Twenty minutes later and Connor could hear Tim making his way out of their bedroom. He’d changed out of his previous clothes and now wore an over-sized t-shirt—something he’d obviously stolen from Connor—and a pair of loose jogging pants. He had a towel over his shoulders and was using it to pat his hair dry. 

“So how goes the chair?” said Tim upon approach.

“I think it went,” said Connor, looking from the instruction manual to his handiwork and nodding approvingly. The sort-of-chair had finally become a chair again. Connor felt rather pleased with himself considering he’d never been that handy at tools. “It wasn’t that difficult really—” He stopped when he finally noticed the look on Tim’s face. Instead of utter relief and maybe even gratitude for Connor’s efforts like Connor had been  _expecting_ , he was met with stoned, cold silence. 

“You assembled the chair.” 

“Um, yes?” said Connor, unsure of why that statement sounded more like a question than anything else. 

“How.”

Okay, now that sounded more like a statement than a question. Connor was slowly growing more confused. 

“I just, um, switched the bolts around and improvised—”

“Improvised.”

“Um, yeah,” said Connor, who was starting to feel very uncertain now. 

“It wasn’t in the instructions though.”

“I just thought,” Connor said, clearing his throat awkwardly because Tim had his other Face on, the face that clearly told you to run and not look back, not if you valued your life or preferred all your limbs to be in tact, “um, why not give it a try and—”

“But it’s not in the  _instruction manual_ , Connor,” Tim bit out, his voice wavering towards the dangerously high-pitched and hysterical again. “How can this be. I don’t understand.”

“Tim.”

“I followed the instructions. There are  _instructions_ , Connor. How else can anyone assemble a chair without the proper instructions? There are chair instructions, Connor, and chair protocols and proper chair hierarchy—”

“Tim, I—”

“So I don’t understand how one can just  _improvise_  when that would completely throw off the balance of the universe—when there are _instructions_  for these things and—”

“Tim, honey, look, maybe you should just—”

“I quit. I fucking  _quit_ —”

“Tim, Tim, calm down—”

“I fucking hate that fucking chair—”

“Tim, language, honestly, but I think you should really—no, Tim, not the screwdriver, baby, put it down, do  _not_ —”

“ASDKLAJSDKLADJALKDJA I FUCKING HATE FUCKING IKEA!!!” 


End file.
